dusty Khur.
Although city-dwellers rather than superstitious nomads, the Khurish delegation still preferred not to enter the Valley of the Blue Sands. As a conciliatory gesture to his reluctant ally, Gilthas broke protocol by meeting them just inside the uncompleted valley wall. He arrived on foot, shaded from the late-autumn sun by a long canopy of flowers supported by a dozen young elves. Although large, the canopy weighed very little and rippled in the slight breeze. The canny Speaker also wore white. Even his aurochs-leather sandals were pale as mountain snow. The only touches of color were the square- cut amethysts decorating the ends of the cord tied around the waist of his robe.
Hamaramis, Taranath, and a retinue of warriors followed their sovereign. They, too, were clad in white and bedecked with flowers. The display had been carefully orchestrated, and it had just the impact Gilthas intended. As desert-dwellers, the Khurs regarded flowers and green plants with deep reverence. Presenting his people awash in blossoms-so near winter, no less-proclaimed Gilthas’s power far better than gilded raiment would have. The elves presented a pageant of wealth and success, the kind that fills bellies and swells coffers with income from trade.
The Khurish delegation halted their horses and watched with barely concealed amazement as the
“Hail, Great Speaker! May you reign a thousand years!” Hakkam cried.
“Oh, not
Somewhat taken aback, Hakkam blinked but forged ahead.
“You are well, Great Speaker?”
“I am. How fares my friend, the mighty Sahim-Khan?”
“The Khan of All the Khurs feasts on the fear of his enemies!”
“No doubt. What news do you bring, General?”
“The mighty Sahim-Khan bade me tell you that when the autumn stars were high in the sky, he drove out the ambassador from Neraka and all his hirelings.”
“Good!” Hamaramis said. Gilthas waited a long moment to reply, silently rebuking the general for speaking out of turn, then inquired of Hakkam what had precipitated the expulsion.
The human frowned. “It is well known the over-the-mountain men have long stirred up treason against our august khan. Your Majesty sent proof of that to my master months ago.”
Gilthas had had no word from Robien on the success or failure of his embassy to the khan. He was glad to know the bounty hunter had gotten the priestess’s message through.
“Yes,” he said benignly.
Hakkam leaned on his saddle pommel, scowling at the implied criticism. “The roots of bribery and treachery were deep. It took the khan’s loyal vassals time to bring all to light.”
Gilthas offered congratulations to Sahim-Khan and his steadfast defenders. “Is that all?” he asked.
The forty Khurish lords stirred on their horses. Plainly, that was not all Hakkam had come to say, but he seemed to have difficulty choosing his words. Finally, he said, “A rebellion has broken out in the south of our country. The tribesmen have rallied around a treacherous leader.”
Many of the elves present immediately thought of Porthios. But he’d gone to Qualinesti. He should be nowhere near Khur.
“Who is this leader?” Gilthas asked.
“He who was Shobbat.”
Despite his surprise, Gilthas made careful note of that phrasing: not “Crown Prince Shobbat” nor “His Highness,” but only “Shobbat.” He expressed his regret at the turn of events, saying “Family wounds are always the deepest.”
Hakkam drew a short, rolled scroll from inside his gauntlet. Taranath rode forward to convey it to Gilthas.
“My master, the mighty Sahim-Khan, proposes an alliance. In that document are his terms. If the Great Speaker would care to read-”
“I shall.” Gilthas tucked the scroll into his belt. “When I have done so, I will give you my answer.”
He turned away. The canopy bearers about-faced. Hamaramis and the warriors turned their horses, and the entire entourage departed the way it had come. The Khurs were left fuming. All Hakkam could do was lead his own delegation back beyond the unfinished walls where they would make camp and await the Speaker’s answer.
Gilthas returned alone to his tent-not the large, open structure in which he conducted the daily affairs of state, but a smaller habitation that would serve as his private quarters until the new palace eventually was completed. The focus of construction in Inath-Wakenti was on humbler structures than the palace, by Gilthas’s own decree. More important to him was that his people have strong roofs over their heads. When those were done, then work would resume on the Speaker’s royal residence.
Within, he found Kerian reclining in a sling chair. Her face had taken on a rosy flush, and her hair had grown long enough to brush her shoulders. Her pregnancy was well advanced, and she did not bother trying to rise when he entered.
The gestation had gone much more quickly than usual. Truthanar believed the Great Change had somehow sped up the process. All the elf women in Inath-Wakenti who were pregnant were much further along than normal. An odd but popular belief was that the souls of those warriors lost to the will-o’-the-wisps were returning in the bodies of newborn babes. Kerian openly scoffed at the notion, but Gilthas could not. His own losses were severe enough that he would never deny solace to others. He knew he would grieve the deaths of his mother and Planchet for the rest of his days.
“How was old Hakkam?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.
“Piratical as ever.”
He went to a small sideboard and poured them both some fruit juice. As he handed her a cup, he pulled the scroll from his belt. “He gave me this. Sahim wants an alliance. Shobbat’s rebellion is gaining ground.”
“What are you going to do?”
He sat down facing her and placed a hand on her belly. “Talk to my son.”
“We don’t know it will be a boy.”
“Truthanar says so.” Gilthas closed his eyes.
Whether Gilthas was communing with their child or not, the baby did kick his mother quite vigorously. Opening his eyes, Gilthas smiled broadly. Kerian shoved his hand away, but a grudging smile lightened her expression.
“Stop teaching her bad habits.” Growing serious again, she said, “You remember our bargain?”
He sighed. “You still intend to hold me to it?”
“Yes!”
“And what of our child? Can you leave him alone so easily?”
“Alone? Gil, there’ll be scores of elves vying for the chance to tend him!”
“A child needs his mother.”
“And his father. And a homeland.”
It was an old argument, given new urgency by a stream of news from the west. Word had come from Alhana that the revolt in Qualinesti was stalled. The Army of Liberation had landed on the east coast in midsummer and driven inland, swiftly cutting the country in two. Samuval’s army was pushed back over the border into Abanasinia. It seemed the end of the bandits’ reign, but local Nerakan forces south of the Ahlanlas River counterattacked, breaking the siege and freeing Samuval’s army. A vicious back-and-forth war raged: one side would take a town only to lose it the very next week. Central Qualinesti had become uninhabitable, full of abandoned villages and despoiled farms. The cruel impasse served no one, as thousands of Samuval’s troops battled hunger as well as the elves. Kerian was determined to join the fight, and she’d struck a bargain with Gilthas. Once the baby was born, she would fly to Qualinesti. He had agreed, believing that when the time actually came, she wouldn’t be able to leave their baby. He’d been berating himself for a fool ever since. When had the Lioness ever shown herself unwilling to join a fight, whatever the cost to herself?
